


Remembering a Mother

by kasumixkira



Series: At a Glance [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 12:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasumixkira/pseuds/kasumixkira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘When did your mother’s plates and doilies become so important to you?’ ‘After the Fell Winter, Gandalf, when the Orcs and white Wolves came and I had nothing left of her!’ he cried, voice rising and echoing down the corridors.<br/>In which the Dwarves overhear this conversation--one in particular who comes to comfort the Hobbit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering a Mother

**Author's Note:**

> [Hobbit-kink Prompt Fill](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=4792898#t4792898)  
>  And I have no beta, so I apologize for any mistakes I have made (and will correct them as I find them).

Bilbo sighed wearily, clutching a mug of tea to his chest and looking anywhere but at Gandalf. The night had been long—too long, in his opinion, not that his unexpected guests cared for any of that (They certainly didn't care for the state of his heart as they tossed his mother's dishes down the hall! Bilbo thought angrily)—and he wanted nothing more to do with discussions of adventures and dragons. It was enough that his pantries lay nearly barren and his hole had become overrun by strangers (thirteen, and Dwarves! he reminded himself), making noise and walking here and there in the hallways behind where he sat, but to consider leaving. Bilbo felt faint again at the thought.

Bag End way his home; it was where he belonged, not gallivanting off beyond the borders of the Shire without a word and abandoning his beloved books and his mother's doilies to collect dust. He moved his fingers over the mug in his hands, following the carved designs of leaves, and he remembered different hands rubbing the same paths and lips smiling over the rim. However, the warmth of the memory faded into blankets of snow and icy winds carrying the howls of Wolves.

As if guessing the foul thoughts circling through the Hobbit's mind, Gandalf turned away from the window and his mutterings, speaking Bilbo's name softly.

“No... no, Gandalf. Let me sit here quietly for a while,” Bilbo begged with all the dignity he could muster, and sipped his tepid tea. He might have imagined it, but he thought he heard a Dwarf snort at his words.

The Wizard's lips also curled into a grimace at the statement. “You've been sitting for too long, my friend. When did your mother's plates and doilies become so important to you?”

Bilbo brought the earthenware cup closer to his heart and stood up forcefully. “After the Fell Winter, Gandalf, when the Orcs came and I had nothing left of her!” he cried, voice rising and echoing down the corridors.

He did not notice how a few of the Dwarves quieted their conversations and wandered closer, interested to hear the sudden anger come from their timid host. They whispered amongst themselves, questioned their knowledge of the Shire to recall a time when Orcs invaded that peaceful countryside. A haze settled over Bilbo's mind, and he was a tween again, facing a row of sharp teeth and listening to cruel laughter. His mother had stood in front of him, hair and snow flying across her vision as she brandished a shovel and swung it until the laughter stopped. The Hobbit did not see the way Gandalf's brow furrowed as more images assailed his memory—of red spreading across pale white and steam coiling up from her rapidly cooling body, of the wet sound as she coughed and the feel of her black-stained hand falling from his cheek.

Grief and anger bubbled inside Bilbo, and his hands shook, gripping the mug righter until his knuckles were white. He could not hold himself back. “After the Fell Winter when she died protecting me, when the snows fell heavily for months, driving the white Wolves to our doorsteps with Orcs following after. When we Hobbits were left to fend for ourselves before the Rangers could arrive! You know this, Gandalf; you where there, riding with them.” His last words were low and laced with a small amount of blame, which he instantly regretted. He knew Gandalf was not at fault.

Silence rang in all their ears, and in that instant the Wizard looked more hunched and grey as he saw such a carefree and happy Hobbit (creatures he had come to admire for their love of laughter and merrymaking) turned hollow. He knelt slowly, felling a heaviness sink into his bones, and wrapped his hands around Bilbo's shoulders, hoping to steady and comfort him. “My dear Bilbo,” he breathed.

Releasing a huff, Bilbo returned to himself and stated matter-of-factly, “There's nothing to be said for it, now. It's—it's in the past,” so he banished the memories and the feeling assaulting him. “I can't go on this journey with you, Gandalf. It's not for me; I'm sorry.”

“As am I,” Gandalf sighed as he pulled away and settled in the chair across from the Hobbit.

He heard the Dwarves murmur to one another, excited and curious—some glad to learn that Hobbits have a little spine in them. Feeling self-conscious and becoming more aware of the shuffling in the hallway, Bilbo smoothed the front of his waistcoat and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, if you'd excuse me, I'm afraid my tea's gone cold.” He made a quick escape to his kitchen, refusing to lower his head but also avoiding the glances of the Dwarves, those few who were moving passed him to gather in the next room over. 

One remarked in passing, “So, the Burglar is'na soft as he seems,” but the comment was ignored by the Hobbit.

Once he entered the kitchen, Bilbo did not stop to glance around, check if he was alone, before sagging against the washbasin and placing the mug down, not yet releasing it. He peered out the window before him, unable to see anything in the darkness, but as his eyes focused on the glass itself, he was startled by the reflection of blond hair close behind his own. He turned, the mug knocked from his hands and making a dull sound as it rolled the length of the sink and back.

“Careful, Mister Baggins,” the Dwarf said with a half-smile around the pipe in his mouth, smoke drifting lazily upward, “that's a precious treasure you hold.” He reached around the stunned Hobbit and steadied the cup, taking it in his hand and examining its craftsmanship in the light.

Bilbo merely stared for half a moment and swallowed loudly, uncomfortable at the other's close proximity, but he shook himself from his stupor and glared at the Dwarf, this one who had strut into his home and tossed his dishes about with a cheerful song. (But what was his name? Bilbo thought: Fíli! ah, yes, Fíli.) And now he appraised the cup almost mockingly.

“Pardon me,” he said, still keeping his air of a polite host even if he wished to be gruff, and put a little distance between them.

“No offense meant,” Fíli laughed and cradled the dishware gently in one hand, taking his pipe in the other. “Dwarves craft items from metal, jewel, and stone, but pottery is beyond us.”

Bilbo puffed out his cheeks and sighed, deflated, and looked to the window again. He breathed in the smoke from Fili's pipe, tasting it, and thought it to be more bitter than his familiar Old Toby. “You think us Hobbits to be simple folk, and you'd be right in saying so. We value the hoe above weapons—love our comfortable life and our families.”

Fíli suddenly pressed the cup into Bilbo's hands, surprising the Hobbit enough to make him glance over, and said, “It's a beautiful mug, moreso for the memories it holds. It's what binds you to this place, Mister Baggins.” He tapped his fingers against the pottery. “I have a home also. Kíli and me weren't born in Erebor, but we know the mountain is our home.”

“But surely you've made a new home elsewhere after all these years.”

“Aye, we've settled to a hard life in the Blue Mountains, some of us, but many still search for what they've lost—that place of belonging. The memory of the Dwarves is long, and we, Kili and me, were raised with the stories our mother told: of countless Dwarves living under the mountain together, of a time when our skills were at their greatest and proudly sought after, of soldiers camaraderie and friendship and family. For her and my brother—for those memories—I would reclaim our kingdom again, live like Hobbits do in the Shire.”

Bilbo's throat felt thick, his tongue heavy, like he had stuffed his mouth full of his mother's sticky honey cakes, and he could not push any words passed his lips. But Fíli did not expect a reply. He merely sucked from his pipe and clapped the Hobbit on the shoulder.

“I think Hobbits are a simple folk who have faced their hardship and become stronger from it. You lost a little bit of your home, Bilbo Baggins, in the snow, but you found a way to reclaim it. We would do the same.”

The blond Dwarf showed Bilbo one last half-smile before pulling away when Kíli appeared around the kitchen doorway. Fíli went to his brother, smiling fully and drawing him close as they wandered towards the others. Bilbo listened to them laugh until it faded down the hallway and turned into deep-throated hums and harmonics. He shuddered and placed his mother's mug in the washbasin again.

Bilbo thought, for a fleeting moment, that he would join the Dwarves, but he turned down the opposite corridor and walked the darkened pathway to his bedroom—away from Fíli, who went to join his kin before the hearth, who sang of his own grief, of a home he had never seen, and remembered the mother who waited for him in the Blue Mountains with memories of a home to be reclaimed. 

But when the morning came and Bilbo caught sight of his mother's cup gleaming in the light, glowing like her smile, he knew he could not sit quietly any longer.


End file.
